The girls are at their regularly scheduled dentist visit this morning, so it’s just me in a quiet house. Which, in NEK-adjusted terms, means it’s silent. Perfect for an hour or so of coffee and reflection.

Now perhaps it’s my birthday looming next week that’s causing such pensiveness. After all, I’m just 1 year away from having, against all odds, survived 50 concentric trips around a star’s orbit whilst stuck to a whirling interstellar mudball… (*knocks wood*)

But I began thinking about the past while sipping my coffee and came to the shocking realization that, exactly 30 years ago this week, I was en route to a job interview on the Clipper City Tallship, back when it sailed from the Inner Harbor of Baltimore.

I was almost 19 and college wasn’t working out. Well, I mean, not if the plan was to actually graduate. If the plan was to drink dangerous amounts of booze and go to rock shows 3 nights a week then I was on a valedictorian track.

I desperately needed a bit of structure and discipline in my life and, as it turns out, that boat up there would the seminal place that started a long (and very windy) path to becoming the man I am today.

Once I’d decided this was what I wanted to do (and after securing funding from my mother for this new life I was envisioning), I traveled to Annapolis, MD where I attended the Annapolis Sailing School and completed my ASA Sailor certification. The idea being I could pad my nautical résumé and show them I was quite serious about sailing work, then meet the hiring manager and try to get a job.

At the end of that week, certification in hand, I caught a ride over to the Clipper City with a vacuum cleaner salesman who happened to be staying at the same bed & breakfast as I was, and then walked across the park to interview/test sail with the crew that night.

A few things stand out from that interview.

The first was that I was terrified they would tell me “nope, thanks…” and send me back to Houston with my tail between my legs. Knowing that, the above picture takes on a quite different look.

The second thing that stood out was the boat’s manager who said, as I walked up and shook his hand, “Good God, you’re beautiful. You’re hired. I want you out by the ticket booth before every sail. Just ask every lady walking by if they want to go on a boat ride.“

The second, and more challenging task, was to prove myself in the eyes of my potential crewmates. After the last sail of the day was over the aforementioned boat manager unlocked the bar for us, flashed a knowing grin at me and said “good luck,” then told us all good night and not to drink all the Absolut or we’d be fired when he got back in the morning.

I soon realized this would be an almost nightly phrase.

Without getting into specifics, by 11:00 we were all blindingly drunk and careening at top speed across Baltimore harbor in the boat’s dinghy, which is attached to the port side in one of the pictures up there.

We sped out to the ruins of Fort Carroll beneath the Key Bridge (yes, that Key Bridge) and spent the next hour clambering around old brick archways and balancing on plank bridges made of rotted wood.

Apparently I was deemed worthy and was hired by the manager the next morning (I don’t recall that exchange because I was still quite drunk), and was informed that I’d need to be back on the boat before the following weekend’s Reggae Rum Sails…just one day after my 19th birthday.

A rapid fire decluttering of all my possessions into whatever could fit into a duffel on my back ensued, a few quick goodbyes were said to friends and family, and I was off.

I moved onto the boat and into a hidden berth behind a painting in the main salon. (It was, in actuality, supposed to be a storage area.)

They paid me $75 a week, plus room, board, and booze. (Yes, it was a different time, kids.) All until one random day in mid-autumn when they decided that they were done sailing for the season and threw all of our belongings out onto the dock without warning.

I caught on with a boat delivery on its way from Newport, RI to Florida where, once again, my berth was relegated to a storage area.

It was almost big enough to fully roll out my quilt, which means it wasn’t even close to being big enough for me to fully extend my legs. Also because it was in the bow of the boat (and because we sailed right through Hurricane Andrew) it was a pretty nauseating journey.

But a beautiful one…

Anyway, all of this nonsense began 30 years ago this week…as I was moving into my 19th year of life.

And now, 30 years later, I suppose it might make a little more sense as to why dropping everything I own and moving to Vermont wouldn’t cause me more than a moment’s pause.

It won’t the next time it happens either.

j.s.